


I Don't Wanna

by ThatAnnoyingBella



Series: Grow Old Together, We Do [7]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Break Up, Depression, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Murder, Urban Fantasy, Urban Magic Yogs, argument, gargoyle!Ross, kelpie!smith, selkie!Trott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAnnoyingBella/pseuds/ThatAnnoyingBella
Summary: Smith can't control it any more. Maybe he never could.





	I Don't Wanna

The night had started out like any other. Smith had kissed Trott goodbye and arrived at the party with a new, unopened bottle of wine - a peace offering. Kirin’s newest pet took it without saying a word, and showed him to the kitchen, where his master stood, leaning against the counter top like he owned the place.

“Hello, Kirin,” Smith had smiled, sweating a little under the intense scrutiny. “I brought you some wine.”

And just like that, the tall, dark man had flashed his teeth and had Smith escorted over liquor stained carpets into the upstairs living room. The chandeliers shook and the air hummed with magic and music and the sound of drunken laughter and everybody was dancing. Vodka and red bull shots were passed from person to person from somewhere in the corner and bright pink feather boas were turned neon under the glaring coloured lights.

It had been easy, much too easy, for Smith to get his hands on the strong stuff, and once he’d had a few dozen sips of various spirits, he was so utterly pissed that he didn’t even think of Trott when a tall lad started grinding on him. The kid was almost as smashed as Smith and pretty, and by the time they’d stumbled into a random bathroom for a quick blowie, the urge was overpowering.

Kill him, kill him, his mind chanted, kill him and run. Smith was falling out of the front door before he knew it.

Smith’s hands were cold. His eyes were sore and stinging in the harsh winter air, and his knees weak, but the key found the lock and he was in the car before he had time to think. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the engine of Smith’s battered old Torino purred a soulful response, a quiet apology. The police would arrive too late - the ambulance, too. Smith had had too much to drink and too little to eat, but soon he’d be home, and the world would be all right again.

Trott would hold him in impossibly hot arms and his lips would surprise Smith with their softness, though he kissed them every day. He’d tell Smith that everything would be okay, and Smith would close his eyes and believe it, because he trusted Trott and Trott was always right. ‘You look tired, sunshine,’ he’d say, and he’d turn the shower on just a touch too hot against Smith’s icy skin, would shampoo his hair and help him into bed, hands never leaving Smith’s shoulders, as though he could protect Smith from the crushing guilt and shame he felt.

He’d been trying, he really had. The thick stench of menthol cigarettes was stuck in his clothes and breath, proof of his desperate attempts to distract himself, but it seemed - was - impossible to hold off on fulfilling the beastly part of his mind or body or whatever it was that made him like this. Cracks ran up and down and left and right through every plan he made, shattering any hope or pride he’d held onto throughout everything.

How dare he survive while refusing to let others do the same? The cost of a life or the price of relief, which would end him- how many lives could one take before they themselves were taken? Sometimes Smith wondered if he had the strength to stop being so selfish, if it was all an empty dream. In that case, why was he trying? 

The space between Smith’s left brain and right got larger every day. To survive, to survive, but to live, to live.

Trott’s keyring hung from a hook just inside the front door of the flat; A black key, a yellow key, a pink key, and a sea-shell on a string. They were a beacon of hope. Trott was home. Trott would take care of him.

“Trott?” Smith called. There was a rustling in the kitchen, and Smith saw a flash of brown over the breakfast bar as he shut the door. Did Trott have his cloak out?

“Smith,” Trott greeted tiredly. He walked out of the kitchen then, his feet bare and his hair messy. His brown eyes held large bags and the T-shirt he wore swamped him, making his arm he used to lean on the wall with look long and skinny. Most worryingly, his Selkie cloak (skin, technically, but Smith hated calling it that) was draped over his fine shoulders like a blanket. “Where have you been?”

Smith pulled the beanie from his head and toed off one of his boots. “I went to a party.”

“Who with?” Trott questioned. His voice was raspy, like he had a cold, and he didn’t move from the doorway.

“Uh-” Smith looked up at Trott. Something was badly, badly wrong. “I- I’m not really sure, I just-”

“Smith, I can’t do this any more,” Trott said softly. Smith’s heart shattered at his resigned tone. 

“What?”

“We need to break up,” Trott said. Smith couldn’t wrap his head around it. He couldn’t be serious. This was so sudden. They’d been together for twenty years, at least. They were in for it all, they’d promised. Had he been thinking about this for weeks, then? Had he been wanting to leave as he held Smith’s head to his chest, or cooked pancakes in the morning, or tossed M&Ms into Smith’s mouth like they’d done in the good old days, or fuck, maybe as they made love? They were getting better!

“I don’t understand,” he said, because he didn’t. How had they gone from a perfect storm to this? To Trott, beautiful, perfect Trott, standing in the hall and leaning against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright? The wall they’d just painted together, days ago, with rollers and shitty stiff brushes. They’d painted it yellow, like the sun, like Trott’s favourite flowers, to celebrate recovery and improvement and- What the fuck was this? 

“Smith-” Trott tried, scrubbing his face with a hand.

“No!” Smith yelled, confusion and despair swarming his mind and slowing his thinking. “Why- I don’t- How could you do this to me?” 

“I’m sorry, Smith. I really am.”

“No you fucking aren’t!” Smith yelled. He’d gone to therapy - they’d gone. They had sat in plush chairs and talked and it had broken Smith’s heart and taken every inch of courage in his heart not to scream when they asked in too-soft voices, “Are you suicidal?” “Why are you ashamed of yourself?” and “How can Trott help?” He’d poured his heart out for this? For Trott to turn around a give up on him?

“Smi-”

“I-” Smith started, pulling at his hair. Trott suddenly stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Shut the fuck up!” He screamed, voice raw and tears running down his face. Smith hadn’t even noticed that he was crying. “Don’t you dare act like my feelings don’t matter!” Trott was shaking, and he held up a hand when Smith tried to speak. “No! Fuck you! Fuck- I tried, Smith, and I’m done.”

Smith had never felt pain like this before. He really thought that they could fix this. How could he live without Trott? Trott was everything. “I thought… I don’t know what I did, Trott. Tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it.”

“Smith you can’t just-” Trott sobbed, pressing his hands to his eyes and turning away. He’d never hidden himself from Smith before, not for years. “It’s over. It’s not- You didn’t do anything. That’s the- Look, Smith, I don’t fucking know. I just can’t do it! It’s killing me, staying here.”

“Well it’s killing me that you’re fucking leaving me!” Smith shouted, “Where are you even going to go, the ocean?! You live here- I- What about Ross? What about me? Do you want me to leave? I can’t-” Smith was filled with panic. He had nowhere to go.

Trott whipped around, face red and twisted in fury. “Fuck y-”

“What?! What did I-”

“No, Smith!” Trott said, quieter. He was trying to end the argument, getting all small and closing himself off.

“Please, Trott. You don’t have to leave. Where are you going to go? What about everything we’ve done? All of those years?” Smith repeated, reaching out. 

Trott shook his head. “I don’t want to leave! I don’t know,” he said. His voice cracked, and he repeated, barely a whisper, “I don’t know.”

“Please. Just st-” Smith was begging.

“Fuck you!” Trott cried, stepping forward and shoving Smith backwards violently. The bookcase behind him wobbled dangerously when his back crashed into it, and several books fell down. “Don’t ask me to stay! I can’t, Smith. If you ask me to stay, I won’t be able to fucking leave, and this is so fucking hard for me too, you know! I just-”

Trott broke off, clutching his cloak tightly. Smith heaved air into his lungs in shock. Trott had never been physical before. He was as torn apart as Smith was. 

“I’m sorry,” Trott whispered, his eyes meeting Smith’s for the first time in a while. The conviction and pain in them ran deep. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay here, Jesus.” And Trott swept towards the front door, unlocking it with one hand and snatching his keys from the hook with the other. The keys.. 

Trott slammed the door behind him and Smith fell apart. He knew that Ross would be home soon, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d fucking done it. He’d killed again, had driven away Trott, and honestly, what was the fucking point in any of this shit? Fuck it! How did he always manage to fuck up every good thing he ever had, to push and push and push until Trott was hurting again, and now, until he gave up. 

Trott gave up on him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Smith whispered under his breath, like a chant, like it meant anything. Like it could fix everything. Nothing would fix this mess. “FUCK!” Smith grabbed the closest object - a book on magic spells, one that Trott had spent hours and hours reading, in the darkest hours of the night, on the bar stools at the breakfast bar, like it was some incredibly important document - and hurled it across the room.

It hit the floor lamp, knocking it over and breaking the shade clean off. The light globe in it smashed upon contact with the floor. Smith screamed it again, “FUUUCK!” and threw some more books, got up and ripped off his second boot, still stuck on his foot, then threw that, too. He stormed over to the mantle and pushed all of the photo frames onto the floor, revelling in the crashes and the sting of breaking glass pinging into his legs, the sight of it smashed at his feet. It made him feel powerful, like maybe he still had some control.

Trott’s face looked up at him from amongst the glass, smiling and rolling his eyes playfully, from the bonnet of an old, beaten up yellow 1970 Ford Torino. “Love you always,” he’d said.

What fucking bullshit.


End file.
